


for us, war is better than peace

by fratboyoforome



Series: To the everlasting Darkness doom us if our deed faileth [4]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Blood and Violence, Hate Sex, I'm Sorry Tolkien, Incest, M/M, Rape/Non-con Elements, brother-fucking, i blame june and lion, sorry - Freeform, terrible murder brothers being terrible to each other, these kids are hecked the fuck up and fuck each other up, this is the worst thing i've ever written probably
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-29
Updated: 2017-11-29
Packaged: 2019-02-08 12:21:30
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,592
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12864414
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fratboyoforome/pseuds/fratboyoforome
Summary: “Beg. For. It,” Maedhros repeats, enunciating each word as clearly as possible. “Beg me to fuck you. Beg me to ruin you. Beg me to destroy myself to destroy you. Beg me.”A sequel, of sorts, tothis





	for us, war is better than peace

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LiveOakWithMoss](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LiveOakWithMoss/gifts), [TheLionInMyBed](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheLionInMyBed/gifts).



> Dedicated to [lion](http://thelioninmybed.tumblr.com) and to [june](http://imindhowwelayinjune.tumblr.com) because without them I would never have started writing fanfiction again, and certainly not this kind of fanfiction, so thanks for that i guess (also thanks for the wonderful encouraging comments on everything else i've dedicated to you two, it means the hecking world to me - sorry i keep writing awful things for you)
> 
> y'all can hit me up on [tumblr](http://fratboy-of-orome.tumblr.com) for a chat abt the murder bros, my boy finrod, or literally anything else
> 
> title from a poem by german poet rudolf leonhard

They make camp by the river at nightfall. Two shabby tents are erected – one for Maglor, one for Maedhros – and bedrolls are placed around a small fire, while the sun slowly disappears behind the tree tops.

Ignoring the bustle around him, Maedhros looks toward the horizon. In the setting sun and the darkening sky, he sees nothing but the corpse of Fingon on the plains of Anfauglith, left bloodied and broken.

By the Void, Maedhros is tired. More tired than he has been since Angband. But sleep does not come easy to him, if it comes at all. When he closes his eyes, he sees rivers of blood, the corpses of the people he’s seen die, and the crows that feast upon their bodies.

When sleep comes, if it comes at all, he is haunted by his lost brothers; Celegorm and Curufin locked in a bloody embrace, Caranthir with a gaping hole in his chest where his heart had been torn out, Ambarussa, burnt so badly that he is nigh unrecognisable. Of course, there are also the nightmares about Angband and the torture he suffered there, but to that he is so accustomed that it hardly wakes him anymore.

Out of the corner of his eye, Maedhros sees his last living brother leading Elwing’s dark-haired boys into one of the tents, and curiosity effectively drags him away from the _(terrible, bloody visions of death)_ beautiful sunset.

Standing next to the shabby tent, Maedhros can hear his brother’s voice as clearly as if they were standing next to each other:

“Stay as far from my brother as you can,” Maglor says, almost gently. The boys do not answer him, but they don’t need to; Maedhros has already seen the fear shining in their large eyes, the disgust painted on their expressive faces, clear as day.

“He is cruel,” Maglor continues quietly, “and he is vicious. He wanted me to kill you.”

“We know that,” says one of the boys bravely, almost managing to hide the slight tremor in his voice. “Mother told us about him. She called him ‘half-orc’.”

Maedhros growls quietly at this. He has tried to make peace with what was done to him in the past, but ever since the Nirnaeth _(since Fingon’s death)_ he hasn’t cared to keep up the civilised façade; he knows the kind of figure he makes with his unkempt hair, terrible scars, and ruined eye, but even though he knows he’s a monster, having admitted as much to Maglor before, few things make him more prone to violence than being called an orc.

_(He knows what orcs are like; how their claws feel on skin; how sharp their teeth are; how painful the sound of their laughter; how they delight in violence – Maedhros may be a monster, but he does not delight in violence or cruelty, no matter what anyone thinks)._

Inside the tent, Maglor says, “she was right to call him that. It fits him better than you know, but if you wish to protect yourself and protect your brother, you will never say that where he can hear you. Understand?”

The boys make no audible reply, as far as Maedhros can tell, but Maglor must be satisfied if the way he leaves the tent a few moments later is any indication.

For a moment Maedhros considers grabbing his brother right there, and forcing some form of vengeance upon him, some humiliation in front of their people, in front of those two orphaned boys. Maedhros even takes several steps towards Maglor, when his brother turns and meets his gaze. Maglor’s expression is unreadable, but there is a glint of smugness in his grey eyes.

Maedhros stops abruptly. Maglor raises an eyebrow and for a second he looks like Curufin, self-satisfied and condescending. He knows, Maedhros realises, that Maedhros heard his insults, expected him to hear it, and he fully expects Maedhros to prove the truth of his warnings in front of everyone.

Gritting his teeth, Maedhros turns on his heel and stalks the other way, refusing to give Maglor what he wants.

\---

It takes them several weeks to return to Amon Ereb and in that time Maglor warns the two boys of Maedhros no less than eight times. Maglor, ever a glutton for punishment and very invested in making Maedhros act like the monster he is, makes sure to give his warnings, only when Maedhros is nearby and will hear it.

Then he proceeds to avoid Maedhros, and Maedhros’ simmering rage, for hours after their return. It is long after sundown, when he slips into the dining room he shares with Maedhros.

At first glance it is empty, though there is still food on the table, and Maglor relaxes slightly, certain that he is safe from his brother’s anger for a little while longer – perhaps he’ll even be safe until morning, if he can get back to his rooms and lock the door, before Maedhros catches him.

Sitting down at the table, Maglor pours himself a glass of wine, but before he can do more than that, his brother’s hoarse, gravelly voice interrupts him: “are you done with playing nursemaid now, brother?”

Maglor startles violently, and drops his glass, so he spills wine all over the table. Wide-eyed and with his heart racing in surprise, he jerks around and meets his brother’s mismatched gaze.

Maedhros is standing by the doors, casually leaning against the stonewall, his arms crossed over his chest in a manner that somehow both highlights how muscular his arms are and how thin he’s grown since their attack on Doriath years ago.

“I thought, you were…” Maglor begins, already feeling smaller and frailer, the way he always does when he has purposefully angered Maedhros and is being confronted with that anger.

“No doubt, you thought, I had already gone to bed,” interrupts Maedhros softly, moving toward Maglor slowly. “No doubt, you thought, you could avoid me for another day, another week, another month,” Maedhros continues, his voice growing tight with anger.

Maglor doesn’t dare move, and Maedhros smiles. There it is, he thinks, the reaction he wanted; fear.

They had been close once, before Maedhros’ long captivity, being the eldest brothers, united in distaste of their younger brothers and their overdramatic antics. Once, Maedhros would never have imagined, could not even have fathomed, a reality where he would want Maglor to fear him.

But that was a long time ago, and now Maedhros delights in the way Maglor stands and backs away from him, grey eyes wide and jaw tight with nerves.

“No doubt, you feared, what I would do to you,” Maedhros continues, forcing Maglor backwards, until his back hits the wall, “when I could catch you alone. You fear my revenge, don’t you?” He lifts his hand and Maglor flinches violently, expecting a slap.

“But why would I punish you for speaking the truth?”

Maglor gapes in shock, when Maedhros strokes his knuckles gently over his cheekbone.

“I am a monster,” Maedhros says sorrowfully, “you did well to warn the children against me. I will not punish you for that.” He starts to back away, carefully monitoring Maglor’s reaction all the while.

Maglor, for his part, is first confused and then angry. How dare he?! There is a point to this, a purpose; attack and counter-attack. Maglor insults and plays pathetic, and Maedhros proves himself as bad as the enemy, cruel and depraved. He doesn’t back away, while telling Maglor that he is right.

Furious and for once unable to find the words to express his feelings, Maglor grabs the nearest thing on the table – a goblet – and throws it at Maedhros’ broad back.

It hits him square between the shoulder blades, and Maedhros stops in his tracks. He says nothing and doesn’t move, so Maglor tries again, says to him: “what will this display accomplish, Nelyo? Do you hope to prove me wrong? You are nothing more than a monster, more orc than elf – truly you were destroyed by the Enemy! Truly Findekáno should never have saved you! He should have let you rot there on the cliffs!”

As soon as Fingon’s name is mentioned, Maedhros’ shoulders tense, and Maglor gleefully continues: “by saving you, he brought about his own death. If you had died in Angband, no one would even have considered the Nirnaeth – your precious Finno would still be alive, if it weren’t for you. Never would they have smashed his head with their clubs, they would not have trod him into the mud of the battle field. His death is on your hands. Well,” he snorts an unamused laugh, “on your hand.”

Maedhros whirls around then, and grabs Maglor around the throat, squeezing so Maglor can barely breathe. No doubt about it, Maedhros is truly angry now, and will not consider curbing his desire for violence, not even to spite Maglor.

When the first blow comes – Maedhros’ false hand, made of steel – Maglor can feel triumphant laughter bubble in his chest and, when Maedhros lets him drop to the floor, Maglor lets it loose.

He laughs as he climbs to his feet, but the laughter stops abruptly, when Maedhros backhands him again. Maglor’s head snaps back with the force of the blow and he is quite certain that his cheekbone is broken. Certainly, he can feel where the skin is broken, where the blood slides down his cheek. He falls to the floor again, dizzy from the pain, and barely fights it, when Maedhros pulls him up again with a tight grip on his dark hair.

“What do you want from me?” Maedhros hisses, his face uncomfortably close, his rank breath hitting Maglor’s cheek warmly. “Give me one good reason to be your instrument of self-destruction. One good reason, little brother, that’s all I ask for.”

Maglor forces an answer out, through the pain clouding his head: “it is not so much my destruction, I long for, but rather yours.” He turns his head, despite the still-tight grip on his hair and whispers, “my beautiful Maitimo.”

Maedhros growls in response and throws Maglor onto the table, holding him down with a hand on his chest. “Beg me for it,” he says, coldly, cruelly. Maglor freezes.

“What?”

“Beg. For. It,” Maedhros repeats, enunciating each word as clearly as possible. “Beg me to fuck you. Beg me to ruin you. Beg me to destroy myself to destroy you. Beg me.”

Maglor hesitates and Maedhros pulls back slowly, his good eye shining with cruel humour.

“As I thought,” he says icily, “you only want this, when you can play the victim, when you can imagine that I am as wicked as the Enemy, as our brothers. As an _orc_.”

Maglor notices the venom in Maedhros’ voice on the last word, and seizes it immediately: “but that is what you are. More orc than elf.”

“Is that what you think?” Maedhros asks, his voice silky in a way that is eerily reminiscent of Curufin. “That I am like an orc?” He leans in again, hand tight in Maglor’s hair, and continues: “do you want to know what the touch of an orc feels like? What their claws feel like on your skin? Their sharp teeth? The way they laugh at your pain? The way they laugh, when you beg them to stop or to kill you? Is that what you want from me, Káno?”

Maglor opens his mouth, but no words come out. He simply stares at Maedhros, until Maedhros pulls on his hair and hisses: “is that what you want?”

Hastily Maglor shakes his head as best he can. “No,” he whispers, “it’s not.”

Maedhros smiles without humour. “Too bad.”

Maglor fights desperately, when Maedhros flips him over, so he’s lying on his front on the table. Maedhros holds him down with his fake hand (Maglor tells himself that he could easily break free, though he knows it’s a lie) and uses the other to pull up Maglor’s tunic, baring his back.

Maedhros drags his sharp fingernails down Maglor’s back, drawing blood and making Maglor cry out in pain. He tries to break free, but Maedhros pushes up against the backs of his thighs, and he can do nothing, except thrash and cry out shrilly.

“Do you like that, brother?” hisses Maedhros harshly. “Do you want to feel teeth too?” He doesn’t wait for an answer, before biting down hard on the sensitive tip of Maglor’s ear, making Maglor groan, and then clamping his teeth down on Maglor’s shoulder until he draws blood.

“Please…” Maglor gasps, “please, Nelyo, stop…”

Maedhros laughs condescendingly, and tears of humiliation stings in Maglor’s eyes. “No,” says Maedhros, “I will not stop, even when you beg me to.” Maglor says nothing in response, settles instead for keening loudly, knowing it will irritate Maedhros half to death. And Maedhros reacts as Maglor expected, by pulling his head back by his hair and smashing his face against the table.

Maglor groans, and knows that if his cheekbone wasn’t broken before, it certainly is now. He can feel the drying blood on his face from earlier, mingling with the tears that fall from his eyes against his will. He can feel the deep scratches on his back from Maedhros’ nails. He can feel blood on his ear and on his shoulder, where Maedhros bit him. He can feel splinters in his abdomen, where he’s been pushed against the table.

It’s awful and it’s glorious.

Unaware of Maglor’s thoughts, Maedhros takes a step back, pulling Maglor to his feet and spinning him around, so that they’re face to face.

“What…?” Maglor gasps, when Maedhros forces him to his knees.

“Did you know,” Maedhros says, almost conversationally, opening his trousers and getting his soft cock out, “that Morgoth sent his most faithful lieutenant to torture me? That Sauron was the first to do this to me, before I was too ugly to be anything but a plaything to orcs?” While talking, he moves his hand over himself, forcing his cock to hardness.

“If you bite me,” he warns, “I’ll slit your throat.” Maglor doesn’t get the chance to answer, before Maedhros shoves his cock into his mouth.

Maglor chokes, unprepared for the assault, but Maedhros doesn’t care. Instead he pulls out, giving Maglor only a heartbeat’s relief, before pushing back in. The pace he sets is fast and rough, and Maglor struggles not to lose consciousness from lack of air.

It feels like an eternity passes, before Maedhros pulls out and finishes all over Maglor’s face, with a groan. Then, having spent his anger, Maedhros lets go of Maglor and does up his trousers, without looking at him.

Finally, he looks down at Maglor, who is weeping openly. For a long time, there is silence, then Maglor looks up and manages: “enjoying your handiwork, brother? Are you proud? You should be – a cripple like you, subduing someone else. What a wonder.”

Maedhros sneers, “you are a pathetic, disgusting creature, Káno, and I truly wish, I could find it in myself, to slit your throat.” With that, he turns on his heel and stalks from the room, not looking back.

Once he’s gone, Maglor climbs unsteadily to his feet, and slowly peels off his ruined tunic. He uses it to clean his brother’s semen of his face, and then leaves it on the dining table, before slowly making his way to his rooms.

\---

Maedhros doesn’t sleep that night. He drinks instead, and throws up, and lies on his bed, begging for forgiveness from Fingon’s ghost.

He receives no answer.


End file.
